Immortalized
by writerluv
Summary: Summary: Mr. Gold refuses to sell an item that, for some reason unknown, meant the whole world to him. AU. Two-Shot.


**Author Note:** This was a story that I began writing way back during season 1 of OUaT. I never finished it and forgot about it until a few days ago when I found it on my computer. I decided to finish and publish it. I was guessing why Rumpel hated the Blue Fairy so much. This is pretty much the theory I had until, of course, they introduced Belle.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters. They belong to the good people at ABC.

Mr. Gold finished the last of the inventory, at least for that day, anyways. He sighed and glanced around his store. How could one tiny room hold so much?

He knew each object had its story and its proper owner, but, for now, they were his until someone was willing to pay their true values. If they were truly that important or valuable, then the buyer should be more than eager to pay.

Though, he couldn't quite recall when or where acquired his eclectic items. The absence of memory began to unsettle him. Mr. Gold—the purveyor of false hopes and promises—would never forget a deal made. How could he? After all, knowledge is power, and he needed to know as much as he could in order to _convince_ people to make a deal with him. Each piece had a story, an important story. So why couldn't he remember?

Mr. Gold, wanting to test the limits of his memory, walked towards the first object that caught his eye: a toy windmill. He studied if carefully and made sure that no detail went unnoticed. The toy windmill was actually part of a farm set. A makeshift pen that caged three cows and two pigs was placed underneath the imposing structure. Across from the pen was a worn-down shack that had three rooms.

"Three rooms?" he wondered. "How could I possibly tell that this toy house has three rooms?" This oddly specific piece of information stirred a sense of _familiarity_ (Could he really call this uncanny sensation that?) in the back of his mind. It had brought him one step closer to unraveling the mystery and yet, at the same time, left him more confused and lost than before.

Mr. Gold closed his eyes and tried to follow the strange feeling. The process was uncomfortable, the least to say. It felt like this brain was trying to cross a tar pit while navigating through a fog. But then, suddenly…he could…he could…he could _smell_ the crisp, cool wind that carried the scent of animal manure.

The little tinkles of bells broke his concentration and forced his attention to the door. No! No! He was so close to uncovering a clue! Where did this damned windmill come from? Why did he _smell_ manure? Why couldn't he remember anything? More importantly, who in their right mind would dare come into his shop after closing time? Well, except for the insolent and foolhardy Ms. Emma Swan, but she was a special case that Mr. Gold was willing to let slide. The unwanted visitor was in fact not Ms. Swan—which would actually make her a welcomed guest in this situation because she is somehow the key to all the mysteries of Storybrooke—but a middle-aged man.

He had a chubby, pale visage; clearly he had never seen the warm light of day or stepped out of his windowless cubical. His rectangular frames sat askew on the bridge of his nose. His brown, dry hair was in a mess. Desperation clearly emanated from the stranger. A cruel smirk began to spread across Mr. Gold's thin lips. He couldn't suppress his pleasure; after all, desperation was his specialty.

Forgetting his earlier contempt, the storekeeper greeted the unfortunate man with a supercilious, patronizing tone. "Welcome to my humble pawn shop. How may help you?" The man, who was distracted by the antiques that surrounded him, almost dropped his disheveled papers. He looked up, shocked, by the presence of the composed and imposing figure who almost seemed to appear from nowhere. Even though the frantic man maybe was a good three or four inches taller than this mysterious person, somehow he felt very small, like a child who was just caught snooping around in a place he shouldn't be.

The man tried to say something, but nothing came out of his mouth. Words were stuck at the back of his throat. Eventually, he compelled his frozen tongue to stutter the inane question "You-you-you're the owner?"

Suppressing the uncouthly urge to roll his eyes, Mr. Gold responded, "Yes, I am. Now, is there anything I can help you with?"

"Um, yes," the customer began, "Yes, my daughter. My daughter's birthday's today. I need a present."

"On top of being a complete and utter mess, this pathetic excuse for a human being also procreated," the broker of deals snidely thought.

"Ah, yes. Well, my shop has plenty to offer. Please, take your time."

Keeping a cautious eye, Mr. Gold followed the frantic movements of the man. There was no way in high heaven that this wretched person could possibly pay for any damage he could cause in the midst of his search for the perfect gift.

The man suddenly stopped and shrieked with joy. He picked up with his chubby hands a trinket lost in the shadows of bigger items. Excitedly, he ran towards Mr. Gold, almost tripping over himself and nearly bringing down the model windmill with him, and presented the keeper of secrets the prized find.

Biting the impulse to through every insult he could think of, Mr. Gold gave a tight, wirily smile. "I see that you have found something good for your daughter. Let me ring that up for you." Without another word, Mr. Gold made his way to the counter. Hesitantly, the man followed the shop owner and handed the present.

Mr. Gold glanced down at a girl who wore a blue ball gown with matching heels and was made of glass and took it from the father. The figurine, despite being made purely of glass, felt as light as air. Maybe that was what she was smiling mischievously about—the secret to her lightness. Or maybe there was a bigger secret that was revealing itself in that ruby-painted smile. Unconsciously, Mr. Gold passed his thumb over the mocking lips and furiously cursed it for knowing something that he didn't. Maybe she knew the stories behind all of the items in his shop. The mere idea that someone else could possibly know more than him made his blood boil.

What was worse, though, were the nearly disproportionately large, brown eyes that pierced his being and made him feel naked under their scrutinizing gaze. Dread and guilt mixed with hope and happiness-an odd cocktail that he never thought imaginable.

Whoever created this master piece must have put his whole energy, love, and life into creating it.

With a hypnotized voice, Mr. Gold said, "I'm sorry, this particular item is not for sale." The wretched man made movements to protest, but before he could raise his objections, the storekeeper raised his hand in supremacy to silence the middle-aged fool. No more words were exchanged, and the man left without a gift for his daughter.

In all his years of running the pawn shop (how many was that again?), Mr. Gold never not made a deal. Everybody had something to offer. If it wasn't money, then it was service or trading objects or information. So then why did he not sell the damnable figurine? Even that office worker could have been useful in some sort of capacity.

Unsure of what to do or what to make of this matter, the shop owner walked towards a painting that hung on a wall behind the counter. He lifted it off to reveal a secret safe. He opened the safe and gingerly placed the figurine inside in hopes of being able to forget everything that happened that evening.

He turned off the lights and finally left his shop.


End file.
